


Interlude #1 - Collecting the Debt

by Soledad



Series: The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord [4]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: COE Fix-it, Gen, Immortal Ianto Jones, Interlude, The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord, Time Lord Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 07:32:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4616706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto's won the bet against Mycroft and now he's collecting his debts. It's not a pleasant process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Collecting the Debt

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, now we switch to Torchwood territory again. Spoilers for CoE all along the next couple of chapters..

INTERLUDE #1

**COLLECTING THE DEBT**

There are places in London that officially don’t even exist. Buildings looking with empty eyes at abandoned streets rarely visited by the public. Whole areas that appear uninhabited, seemingly waiting for the demolition teams with their bulldozers to make room for new houses; for new life.

Some of those places are truly as dead as they look to the casual eye. The city grows and changes, and for that to happen some old, derelict parts simply have to go. Some of them, however, only _play_ dead, while dark secrets are kept behind their seemingly barren walls.

Most people don’t even know about the existence of such places. Of those who learn about them, many enter but never leave again. Only a handful can visit them and live – never to tell the tale.

Mr Dekker (first name unknown to everyone but his ultimate bosses) was one of that handful. As a senior civil servant, he’d once been the head of MI5’s technology division, but worked in the more… shadowy areas as well. Like alien monitoring, of which he’d been in charge for decades. It had been part of his job to visit such places. As a supervisor at first; as the person whom the information acquired in such places – by methods that should better remain undiscussed – ultimately went.

Therefore it wasn’t surprising that he would recognise Ashton Down, even from inside of a cell, despite having been brought there blindfolded and against his will. After all, Ashton Down had played a rather unsavoury role in the 456 disaster – a crisis that he had helped to orchestrate, however unknowingly, and to end… in a manner of speaking.

Not that he’d get any credit for it; he never expected, in truth. His role had always been to solve problems, by any means necessary, and to remain unknown and unnoticed in the background. He was quite good at that.

He was also fairly good at knowing when to retire from the Game. He’d helped quite a few politicians to recognise that necessity, whether they wanted it or not. As he had told that poor John Frobisher, the civil servants were the ones who actually ran the country. The politicians – including the Prime Minister – were only there for the show. Once they had outlived their usefulness they became a problem and had to be removed.

Gently, if they chose to cooperate. Forcefully, if they did not.

Mr Dekker was smart enough to realise that with the 456 disaster _he_ had outlived his usefulness, too. It was time for _him_ to retire, and since he’d made the necessary precautions decades ago, vanishing from the Game and settling in the countryside under a false name had been child’s play. Hiding in plain sight – that was another thing he did very well. Who would suspect Mr Gelder, the somewhat dotardly old gentleman tending to his pumpkins in the garden, to have held the fate of the entire British nation in his hands once?

The more surprised was he therefore when the sleek black car with the tinted glasses pulled up on the back of his house and two burly men – looking like gorillas in Armani suits – grabbed him and stuffed him into the car unceremoniously. The whole action didn’t take longer than perhaps thirty seconds; the overdressed gorillas were obviously well-trained and well-instructed.

Before any of the neighbours could have noticed the car, it was already leaving; and _that_ , knowing the number of insatiably curious old ladies in the neighbourhood, was quite the feat. Of course, the excellent timing helped. At this particular time of the evening most little old ladies were in their kitchens, preparing a modest supper before their favourite programme would start on the telly.

People of habit, these old ladies were. And _somebody_ knew their habits very well.

The careful timing and spotless execution of his kidnapping had _Mycroft Holmes_ written all over it, Mr Dekker realised with a sinking feeling. Among those who knew his methods – and _that_ was a small and exclusive circle indeed – Holmes was known for such actions. He regularly had people kidnapped from the street for a little chat in an empty warehouse or abandoned industrial building. It was part of his intimidation tactics, just like his obscenely expensive suits or that ridiculous umbrella he carried with him everywhere, regardless of the actual weather.

What Mr Dekker could not understand was _why_ Mycroft Holmes would want to kidnap _him_. Their work never really intersected, but Holmes should know that he wasn’t easily intimidated. Besides, he was retired now. Whatever access codes he might have been entrusted with had likely been changed in the last two years. So what could Holmes _probably_ want from him?

True, John Frobisher and Mr Dekker _had_ seen into it that Holmes would be as far away from London during the 456 disaster as humanly possible. That neat little crisis in the deepest Arabian Desert – the one that could have easily ended in a nuclear meltdown without a mediator of Holmes’s diplomatic skills – had served the purpose beautifully.

The real beauty of it was that it had been an authentic crisis; they hadn’t even had to orchestrate it in any way.

So why would Mycroft Homes kidnap him? Even if he was, for some unknown reason – aside from just being infuriatingly meddlesome – interested in the 456 crisis, what did he expect from such an action? The only people that would hold any grudge against Mr Dekker – the ones still alive, that is – were Jack Harkness and his daughter. But Harkness had left the planet right after the funeral of that little Welsh catamite of his, and as for his daughter… Ms Carter had lived in a psychiatric institute since the grisly death of her little son (killed by her own father to destroy the 456), sedated out of her mind.

Besides, as far as Mr Dekker knew – and he’d made it his policy to know his enemies well early on – Holmes had never met these two. So what the hell did that self-important fool want from _him_?

The screeching sound of a key being turned in the keyhole – this part of Ashton Down was old enough to still function without electronic equipment and was unused most of the time anyway – alerted him that his questions would likely be answered, soon. The door opened and two plain-clothed gorillas (not the same ones involved in his kidnapping) marched in. They handcuffed him and led him out of his cell without a word.

After the second turn the corridor became familiar. He knew now where they were heading: to the interrogation rooms on Sublevel One. He’d held interrogations in those rooms himself in his younger years; often enough to know that people brought there seldom left unharmed. Some never left again; not on their own anyway.

He hated to admit but he began to feel nervous. He was too old for this shit – especially for being on the receiving end.

He wasn’t particularly relieved when he found the room empty, save for a table and an odd-looking armchair that had a vague reminiscence to an electric chair… not the least because of the various straps and cables attached to it. This was going to be a very unpleasant interrogation.

The gorillas removed the handcuffs, shoved him onto the chair and strapped him in tightly. Then they left him alone in the windowless, dimly lit room. By then, Mr Dekker had had enough.

“Oh, c’me on, Holmes, stop the theatre,” he scowled at the ceiling where, he knew, the surveillance cameras and microphones were hidden. “Drop the bloody act and just tell me what the hell you want.”

“Mr Holmes doesn’t want anything from you,” a vaguely familiar young voice with a soft Welsh lilt answered calmly. “He’ merely paying the debt he owes me.”

The lights on the ceiling brightened several degrees, revealing a tall figure in a sharp three-piece-suit standing at the door – a bit too squarely built to actually _be_ Holmes. As he came closer with slow, measured steps, the light finally fell onto his face – and then Mr Dekker gasped in shock.

He was looking into the face of a dead man. A man he’d watched to die in the Thames House with his own eyes, from the safety of the only biohazard suit available.

What the hell was Ianto Jones, Torchwood Three’s dead and properly buried archivist, doing here?

~TBC~


	2. Truth & Consequences 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, now we switch to Torchwood territory again. Spoilers for CoE all along the next couple of chapters.The mind-probe is from the 2nd season Torchwood episode “Sleepers”. Apologies for the shameless B5 rip-off.

**TRUTH & CONSEQUENCES, Part 1**

 

“This is impossible,” Mr Dekker muttered. “You can’t be here. Just can’t. You’re _dead_.”

“I was,” Jones agreed calmly. “I’m better now.”

“Oh, don’t give me _that_!” Dekker snarled. “Or are you telling me that Harkness’s condition is contagious now?”

“Not unless he really _wants_ you to live,” Jones replied. “Which in your case he hardly would, Mr Dekker, so don’t worry. As much fun as it would be to kill you over and over again, like your minions did with Jack, that’s not why we’re here.”

“So, why are we here?” Dekker asked sarcastically. “Or rather why are _you_ here? I for my part was _brought_ against my will.”

“I want answers,” Jones said simply. “And you’ll give me them.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Dekker riposted. “If you think torture or electroshocks or whatever this chair is capable of would work on me you’re mistaken. The most you can expect is my old heart giving out, and then you’ll be standing here as you are now: with nothing.”

“The chair is not a torture device,” Jones said. “It’s just a mind-probe; a piece of alien technology salvaged from the ruins of the Hub… you know, our headquarters that your people blew up to kill us all. It merely serves to uncover the truth.”

“And how?” Dekker asked sceptically. Jones shrugged.

“We never figured out the actual method. But I know it _works_ – we tested it several times – and that’s enough for me. Of course it’s still possible that your heart _will_ give out during the process,” he added with a dark little smile that sent the chills along Dekker’s spine. “You’re an old man, after all. But I hope to find the truth _before_ that happens. You’re of no use to me dead.”

He touched his headset and said something in a voice too low for Dekker to understand. The door opened again and in walked an elegant black woman, wearing a white lab kit, accompanied by a young black man in a janitor’s coverall.

“There’s no time like the present, so let’s begin right away,” Jones said. “Martha’s a doctor; she’ll watch your vitals – and administer the Retcon, should you survive – while Mickey is operating the equipment.”

“And what will _you_ do?” Dekker asked dismissively.

“I’ll be asking the questions,” Jones replied. “And I’d suggest cooperation. The device _will_ get the truth out of you, no matter what; but if you try to resist, the procedure will be a lot more… unpleasant.”

“You mean it will hurt?” Dekker clarified.

“Oh, yeah,” Jones replied with a beatific smile full of satisfaction.

It was a truly horrifying sight.

The guy with the coverall put the box he was carrying onto the table, took out a metal helmet that looked like some sort of cage and plugged it into the chair. The helmet-y… _thing_ began to glow ominously.

The pretty doctor seemed nervous. “Ianto, I remember Jack saying we weren’t supposed to use this thing ever again.”

“Well, Jack isn’t here, is he?” Jones replied coldly. “Besides, it’s just a mind probe.”

“An _alien_ mind probe,” the lady doctor reminded him. “Not exactly meant to be used on humans. Remember what happened last time?”

“That was different,” Jones said, unperturbed. “That terrorist suffered from unusually high blood pressure. I’m surprised his head hadn’t exploded by itself long before.”

“Ianto, think about it,” the doctor begged. “This is an old man; what if you’re wrong and he doesn’t know anything? Then we’d have killed him for nothing!”

“I’m _not_ wrong,” Jones answered flatly. “He knows what I need to know, and I’ll get that knowledge out of him, one way or another. Don’t waste your pity on him; this old man watched calmly all those people die in Thames House, while commanding the only biohazard suit. He watched Jack sacrifice his own grandson to clean up the mess he and his cronies had created. He knows who was the mastermind behind the conspiracy to eradicate Torchwood, and he’s gonna tell me, no matter the costs.”

“Take it easy, man,” the tech guy said soothingly. “Promise us that we’ll stop at the first sign of trouble.”

Jones raised a coldly amused eyebrow. “You meant the first sign of exploding? I’ll consider it. Now, get on with this, we don’t have all night.”

The tech guy sighed and shook his head but he pushed the cage-like thing onto Mr Dekker’s head nonetheless. It was surprisingly cool for being in full glow. Then he took several pieces of tech gizmo out of his box, including a flat monitor, which he gave to their doctor, cross-connected the whole bunch of futuristic equipment and typed something on a strange-looking keyboard that was likely the control panel of the whole thing. Then he looked at Jones.

“We're all set, Jonesy.”

“Wait,” Dekker protested. “At least tell me what the hell this… thing is gonna do to me!”

“It drills down through your consciousness, so if there's anything hidden – and we _know_ there is – it'll pop to the surface,” Jones explained matter-of-factly. “The less you resist, the easier it will be for us all. Let’s start, Mickey.”

The tech guy clicked a few keys and Dekker felt as if red-hot needles had lanced through his head. He screamed.

“Safe,” the lady doctor said, her pretty eyes glued to the monitor. She studiously avoided looking in Dekker’s direction. “Go on, Ianto.”

“So, Mr Dekker,” Jones said in an absurdly conversational manner, “tell me who was your mastermind. Who envisioned the plan to plant a bomb inside Jack and blow him up, together with the Hub?”

“I don’t know!” Dekker grated. Jones tutted and shook his head.

“Wrong answer. Go deeper, Mickey. Who gave the orders to kill all those people involved in the first 456 incident, back in the 1950s?”

“Green… it was Brian Green…” Dekker howled.

Jones nodded dispassionately. “I know he was the one who gave you free hand in this matter. I want to know who actually conceived the orders, though.”

“I… don’t… know…” the pain in his head was getting worse. Much worse.

“Vital signs are all over the place, but still safe,” the lady doctor reported, her voice slightly shaking.

“Wrong answer, Mr Dekker,” Jones looked at the tech guy. “Go deeper.”

“Are you sure?” the tech guy seemed very uncomfortable. “I mean he’s…”

“Do it,” Jones said evenly. “He’s just an old bastard who wouldn’t hesitate for a second, were you in his place. Don’t let his grandfatherly looks fool you; he is a monster. Go deeper.”

The tech guy shook his head unhappily but obeyed. The pain intensified. The chance of his head exploding suddenly didn’t seem unlikely.

“Safe,” the lady doctor said with obvious reluctance.

“Good,” Jones said. “Now perhaps we’ll get some answers. Tell me, Mr Dekker, whose was the plan? Who persuaded Prime Minister Green that giving the children to the aliens was the only way to save the planet? Who suggested choosing from the lower social classes? Who decided that removing Torchwood from the equation was necessary?”

“I… don’t know…” Oh God, his head was really going to explode!

“Wrong answer,” Jones said flatly. “Deeper, Mickey.”

“Jonesy, we've got to stop this!” the tech guy protested.

“Not before I get my answers,” Jones replied, his eyes dark and icy cold. “Go. Deeper.”

“Safe,” the lady doctor said hoarsely while living flames engulfed Dekker’s brain. “But I don’t know how much more he can take.”

“It’s up to him,” Jones said. “Now, Mr Dekker, stop being an idiot and give me a _name_. I won’t stop until you do, so be reasonable.”

The pain in his head reached unbearable levels. Dekker went rigid in the chair as if electrocuted, and with a last feeble effort he blurted out the carefully hidden secret.

“MORIARTY!”

And then everything went black.

~TBC~


	3. Truth & Consequences 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, now we switch to Torchwood territory again. Spoilers for CoE all along the next couple of chapters.The mind-probe is from the 2nd season Torchwood episode “Sleepers”. I broke this chapter in two parts because otherwise it would have been unproportionally longer than the other ones.

**TRUTH & CONSEQUENCES, Part2**

Ianto sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. The interrogation took more out of him than even Martha and Mickey would have guessed. He wasn’t a cruel person by his very nature and acting so mercilessly had been hard on him.

“Switch off the probe,” he said to Mickey, who hurried to obey.

The cage-like headpiece went dark. Mickey unplugged it, removed it and put it back into the box with several other pieces of the equipment.

“Who is Moriarty?” he then asked.

Ianto shrugged. “I have no idea; not yet anyway.”

“Well, _he_ won’t be able to tell you more,” Martha said, consulting the screen – actually some sort of alien scanner – with a frown.

“Is he dead?” Ianto asked without remorse. Martha shook her head.

“No; physically he’s all right. Must have the constitution of a rhinoceros, really. But the probe destroyed a great deal of his memory engrams. Irreparably.”

“Meaning?” Ianto stepped up behind her to take a look at the readings for himself.

Martha shrugged. “Well, he’ll be able to take care of himself if that’s what you mean. Reading and writing abilities appear unharmed, too. But all the personal memories are gone. He probably won’t be able to remember his own name.”

“Excellent,” Ianto said. “That spares us the Retcon and guarantees a safe outcome. We’ll have him brought back to his little cottage, let him keep the fake name he’s been using in the last two years and fake an accident to explain the memory loss.”

“You think that’s gonna work?” Martha asked doubtfully.

Ianto nodded. “Of course. Such things happen all the time – at least according to the stupid TV shows people are so fond of. Nobody will ask any questions. What?” he asked as the other two kept staring at him in mild shock.

“I’m not sure I like the person you’ve become, Ianto,” Martha said slowly, and Mickey nodded.

“Dying can do that to a man,” Ianto replied dryly. “Besides, I’m not doing this for myself.”

“Oh, so you’re doing it for _Jack_?” Martha asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “And you think he’ll approve?”

“He’ll at least understand my reasons,” Ianto said. “But I’m not doing this for him, either. I’m doing this cos the man, this Moriarty character, he’s still out somewhere, and we can’t afford him doing anything like what he did during the 456 crisis again.”

That was, of course, very true. So true that Martha and Mickey couldn’t really argue. But this bitter truth didn’t make them any more comfortable with the consequences of their actions, and it disturbed them greatly that Ianto didn’t seem to be bothered by the outcome at all.

~TBC~


	4. Truth & Consequeces 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to “Sherlock”. Obviously, as the world’s only consulting detective would say. Well, more or less.

**TRUTH & CONSEQUENCES, Part 3**

“Moriarty,” Mycroft repeated the name thoughtfully. “Yes, that can explain some things, at the very least.”

Ianto gave him a slightly alarmed look. “You know the man, sir?

Mycroft shook his head.

“Nobody does. He’s like a ghost, an urban legend. But his name does appear time and again…. Always in the background, always connected to potential scandals or very serious crimes of the political or financial sort. It has been around for years… for about two or three years, if I’m not mistaken. I’ll have to check the particulars with Mummy, but yes, two or three years should be right.”

“And he’s never been caught?” Ianto asked in surprise. “I know our police aren’t really equipped to deal with criminal masterminds, but _you_ were around, too.”

“Actually… no, I wasn’t. Not at the time when he first appeared behind the scenes, perhaps half a year after The Year That Never Was. If you remember, I was mostly abroad; and when I finally got back on a permanent basis, all possible traces were gone. He’s elusive, or Mr Moriarty. No-one seems to know who he is, where he comes from, if Moriarty is really his name.”

“Or if he’s really a man,” Ianto added.

“In fact, that’s the only thing we know for sure,” Mycroft corrected. “Minor… associates of his that got caught in our net during the recent years all say that it was a male voice that spoke to them through the phone.”

“It could have been a substitute,” Ianto pointed out. “Or he could have used a voice modifier; easily bought or even built at home in these days.”

“True,” Mycroft allowed. “However, according to our profilers it is statistically more likely that he is, indeed, a man.”

“Why?” Ianto asked. “Throughout human history women have been known to reign from behind the throne; and not always necessarily through the bedroom. They are excellent manipulators.”

He forcibly banned the memory of Gwen-bloody-Cooper from his conscious mind for the umpteenth time. And, again not for the first time, he wished for a massive dosis of Retcon, so that he could forget her altogether.

Unfortunately, that would also mean the loss of many fond memories about Jack and Tosh… even about Owen. Which was the ultimate reason why he never actually touched the stuff. _Not_ the fact that no-one could tell what Retcon would have done with a photographic memory like his.

“Yes, they are excellent manipulators,” he murmured to himself.

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. But as a rule, women manipulate things, even on the grand scale, for their personal advantage. I have to meet one of them yet, at least on this planet and in this century, who would crave power just because she’d find it _fun_ to manipulate the lives of entire nations. Who would start wars and cause the economy of whole countries collapse, just to get entertained – while still moving selected individuals across her chessboard like pawns.”

“Like Jeff Hopley,” Ianto said quietly.

“Exactly,” Mycroft agreed. “I doubt that our Mr Moriarty truly cared either for Jeff Hopley’s religious delusions or for the unjust way Brian Hopley’s death had been swept under the carpet. I do think, however, that he greatly enjoyed all those deaths and the havoc that his puppet wrought. And he’d have liked it very much if Jeff Hopley had murdered Sherlock.”

“Cos Sherlock could be dangerous for him?” Ianto asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Oh, no. The only person who could be _truly_ dangerous for him is me. I’ve got the intelligence to find him _and_ the power to destroy him, and I won’t hesitate to do so. I imagine he knows that, too.”

“Why Sherlock then?” Ianto frowned. “I mean, beyond the obvious fact that he can induce a homicidal rage in a saint.”

“People with delusions of godhood don’t like competition,” Mycroft replied. “Mr Moriarty is a highly intelligent criminal. Sherlock is a genius detective. Therefore, he could either be a playmate for Moriarty – or a test subject for his perverted little games.”

“Like Jeff Hopley’s two pills?” Ianto guessed.

“Going in that direction, yes,” Mycroft sighed. “I’m afraid that was only the beginning, though. Mr. Moriarty lost an excellent pawn but the game is still going on. I’m getting the uncomfortable feeling that he’s going to raise the bets, and that soon.”

“But wouldn’t that blow his cover?” Ianto asked. “Why would he want to reveal himself?”

Mycroft smiled mirthlessly. “As my brother tends to say: the brilliant ones are always desperate to get caught. They crave appreciation; want to show off to everyone just _how_ brilliant they are. That’s the greatest weakness of every proper genius.”

“That would certainly explain some of Sherlock’s more extravagant personality quirks,” Ianto commented dryly.

Mycroft nodded. “Or mine. I know. Fortunately, Anthea is not easily impressed… _or_ intimidated. She and Mummy keep me grounded.”

“Seeing that one of them is an organic computer and the other one an android from an alien planet, it’s easy for them,” Ianto said. “Moriarty, though… what are you planning to do about him, sir?”

“There’s not much I can do,” Mycroft admitted grudgingly, “other than trying to find more of his associates and question them.”

“Can you be certain that they’re gonna tell you the truth?” Ianto asked doubtfully. “Or, in fact, that they know anything useful in the first place?”

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft replied coldly. “You’re not the only one who can use an alien mind probe. Speaking of which, make sure you ask for authorization next time you choose to use it on somebody, or else you can await the return of Captain Harkness as a severed head in a jar. I don’t know how far your ill-gained immortality goes, but I seriously doubt that you’d be able to grow the rest of your body back, so do play by the rules, will you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ianto blanched a little. His peculiar condition – not to mention working closely with a Time Lord – had made him a tad reckless, and _that_ had been a mistake. He swore never to forget again that Mycroft Holmes was the most dangerous human on the planet – and probably on a great many other planets, too.

_Human_ being relative, of course.

~The End – for now~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will be continued in The Serpent’s Lair. Eventually.


End file.
